There is a nagging itch in your fingers and you want to come up with some mind blowing masterpiece, disconnected from its reality for you... but it's just one of those days when words won't dissociate from your thoughts. And yet, words never suffice. So... what do you do?
Listen to some Dylan and Rolling Stones, looking for some ideas to straighten out the web of thoughts in your head. Doesn't work. Then, you finally get your ass moving and make some hot chocolate with embellishments, because you need the comfort of the thick texture and the aroma that comes with it... so there goes the last of your fresh mint leaves... But you're still fishing for some words that just elude you... just elude you .... as you lose yourself behind the smoke rings.
The tug of nostalgia doesn't stir you because it's not nostalgia. It's what you have internalized. You wish for it to pass so that you can retrace the steps outside of it. But the bitch that this life is... it always brings you back to the mess that was created long ago. So what do you do? Haplessly wait for the day when you'll be in the hot seat and the madness just spills itself out. You know it's a crash in the making... and you know it's inferno en route... but what do you do? The only answer lies in the defenseless purging that is yet to be.
Psychic determinism: People get stuck in the circle of their personal tragedies, and remain so.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!!
The silent protest of overkill...
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